The year is now 113 AC. Seven years had passed since Rhaenyra first set foot in Winterhold College. She had arrived a curious, somewhat pampered princess; she now stood a formidable young woman, sharpened by Northern education, her mind a repository of statecraft, strategy, and innovation. Her talent for archery was now widely acknowledged, and her proficiency with a dagger was deadly. The final farewell to the Stark family in Winterfell was filled with solemn respect. King Artor and Prince Antares commended her dedication, and she, in turn, expressed her profound gratitude.
"Your Grace, Prince Antares," Rhaenyra stated, her voice clear and resonant, "the lessons I have learned here are invaluable. Asgard has shaped me in ways I could never have imagined. And I pledge, that in time, when I am blessed with children, they too shall come to Winterhold to learn as I have."
Astrid Flint, her features softened with a genuine warmth, embraced Rhaenyra. "You will always have a home here, Princess Rhaenyra."
Then came the hardest farewell. Mordred stood before her, her usual bravado momentarily lost. For six years, they had been 'Rhae' and 'Red', inseparable, sharing triumphs and frustrations, laughter and whispered secrets. Now, an ocean would separate them.
"Red," Rhaenyra choked out, her voice thick with emotion, tears welling in her eyes. She pulled Mordred into a fierce embrace, holding her tightly.
Mordred, uncharacteristically, clung just as fiercely, her own shoulders shaking. "Don't you dare forget me, Rhae," she whispered, her voice rough. "Don't you dare let those soft Southerners make you forget everything you learned."
"Never, Red," Rhaenyra vowed, pulling back, tears streaming down her face. "And you, you write to me. About every new invention, every wild boar you hunt. And if there is ever any need, any need at all, for help, for strength, for anything... know that I will be there for you. And you for me."
Mordred nodded, wiping furiously at her eyes. "Always, Rhae. Now go. And don't let them turn you into some simpering Southern flower."
With a final, tearful goodbye, Rhaenyra, Elinda, and Sarisa boarded the ship bound for King's Landing, leaving Asgard and its harsh, honest magic behind.
The return to King's Landing was met with a grand spectacle: a tourney, ostensibly held in honor of her completing her education. The Red Keep buzzed with activity, banners fluttering, knights polishing their armor, and ladies donning their finest silks. It was a stark contrast to the quiet, purposeful energy of Winterhold, and Rhaenyra felt a familiar sense of discomfort settle upon her. The politeness here felt heavy, the smiles often brittle.
During the opening ceremonies of the tourney, a roar erupted from the crowd. All eyes turned to the sky. Descending from the clouds, a massive, black shape, its scales gleaming under the sun. Caraxes. And astride him, unmistakable, was Prince Daemon Targaryen.
He had returned. After years of fighting in the Stepstones, proclaiming himself the King of the Stepstones and the Narrow Sea, Daemon had finally come home. He landed Caraxes in the tourney grounds, dismounting with a flourish. His armor was scarred, his face harder, yet his infamous smirk was still firmly in place. He strode towards the royal dais, a crowd of adoring common folk and wary lords parting before him.
Then, before the startled court, Daemon knelt before King Viserys. He took the intricate, jewel-encrusted crown he had worn as "King of the Stepstones," and with a graceful, dramatic gesture, offered it to his brother.
"My Crown, and the Stepstones themselves, I lay at your feet, my King," Daemon declared, his voice carrying across the hushed grounds. "There is only one true king. My brother."
Viserys, tears welling in his eyes, rose from his seat. "My brother! My blood!" he cried, rushing forward. The two brothers embraced, a sight that sent a ripple of emotion through the court – relief from some, suspicion from others, and a flicker of hope in Rhaenyra's heart. Perhaps, finally, her uncle was back where he belonged.
That night, amidst the celebrations of Daemon's return, a familiar tap came at Rhaenyra's chamber door. It was Daemon. He spoke of secret tunnels, of adventure, of seeing the real King's Landing. Despite her better judgment, a part of her, yearning for the raw honesty of the North, was drawn in.
In disguise, using a network of hidden passages only Daemon seemed to know, they slipped out of the Red Keep and into the winding, chaotic streets of Fleabottom. The stench hit her first, a pungent mix of refuse and unwashed bodies, a stark reminder of Mordred's casual observations. Daemon led her to a dimly lit common room, where a crude play was being performed. On the makeshift stage, actors lampooned the royal family, proclaiming her half-brother, Aegon, as the rightful king, mocking her own claim. A cold knot tightened in Rhaenyra's stomach.
Afterward, Daemon, his eyes gleaming, began to steer her towards Silk Street, the infamous row of brothels. Rhaenyra immediately grasped his true, insidious intention. This wasn't about showing her the "real" King's Landing; it was about compromising her, about undermining her purity and claim.
Her mind, sharpened by years of Northern strategy, worked quickly. She suddenly feigned a stumble, then, with a swift, unexpected shove, she pushed Daemon against a wall. "You will go where you wish, Uncle," she hissed, her voice low and furious, "but I will not be dragged into your schemes. I am the King's designated heir!"
Before he could recover from his surprise, Rhaenyra turned and fled, navigating the labyrinthine streets of Fleabottom with a speed born of desperation. She found her way back to the secret tunnel entrance she had memorized, and finally, breathlessly, returned to the safety of her chambers in the Red Keep.
The next morning, the calm shattered. Otto Hightower, his face grim, sought out King Viserys, confirming his ever-present suspicion of Daemon. He recounted, in damning detail, how Daemon had taken Rhaenyra into the squalid depths of Fleabottom, even hinting at her presence on Silk Street.
Viserys, already stressed by Daemon's dramatic return and the subtle shifts in the court's loyalties, flew into a towering rage. He summoned Daemon, and a furious argument erupted between the brothers, their shouts echoing through the halls of the Red Keep. Daemon, defiant to the last, refused to be cowed. Finally, fed up with his unpredictable brother, Viserys, in a fit of despair and fury, sent Daemon into exile once again.
Immediately after, Viserys summoned Rhaenyra to his solar. His face was a mask of anger and disappointment. "Where were you last night, Rhaenyra?" he demanded, his voice trembling with barely controlled fury.
Rhaenyra, exhausted and emotionally drained, recounted her version of events: the play, Daemon's betrayal, her escape. But Viserys, his trust shattered by Otto's poisonous whispers and Daemon's history, simply shook his head.
"I do not believe you," he stated, his voice cold and final. "You have shamed yourself, and shamed our house. This cannot be allowed to stand."
His eyes, usually so gentle, were now hard, resolute. "There will be no more foolishness, Rhaenyra. You will secure your succession as is proper. I command it." He took a deep, shaky breath, his decision clear. "You will marry Laenor Velaryon."
The words struck Rhaenyra like a physical blow, a chilling echo of Jason Lannister's crude proposal. Her hopes for a life of purpose, for a marriage of alliance rather than subservience, were shattered. The freedom she had tasted in the Northern air, the wisdom she had gained from Theon Stark, suddenly felt insignificant against the crushing weight of her father's will and the suffocating traditions of the South. She was back in the cage.
The command had been given, and so the machinery of the court ground into motion. Preparations for Rhaenyra's marriage to Laenor Velaryon began in full swing. The Red Keep, already abuzz from Daemon's return and exile, now became a hive of activity dedicated to crafting a lavish wedding, a grand spectacle designed to reassert the stability of the Targaryen succession. Gowns were sewn, feasts planned, and alliances cautiously weighed.
Rhaenyra, still seething from her father's decree and the fresh wound of Daemon's betrayal, felt like a pawn in a game she no longer wished to play. Yet, amidst the forced smiles and curtseys, one thought offered a sliver of comfort: Mordred. She immediately dispatched a raven, inviting her best friend to the wedding. She desperately needed the bracing honesty of 'Red' amidst the suffocating artificiality of King's Landing.
Mordred, true to her word, arrived with a small retinue, her no-nonsense Northern attire a stark contrast to the silks and velvets of the Southern court. Her presence was a balm, a reminder of the straightforward world she had left behind. The wedding was indeed a grand festival, a week of celebrations, feasts, and tourneys.
But even amidst the forced revelry, tragedy struck. During the wedding feast, amidst the drunken laughter and boisterous music, the peace was shattered. Ser Criston Cole, her sworn shield and former confidant, in a fit of inexplicable rage, brutally assaulted Joffrey Lonmouth, Laenor's close companion. The sounds of breaking bones and terrified screams cut through the hall. Joffrey, the Knight of Kisses, lay broken and dying on the floor. Laenor, his face a mask of grief and horror, clung to his best friend's body and cried, his anguished wails echoing through the stunned silence. The celebration devolved into chaos, a grim omen for a marriage built on obligation.
The wedding and the ensuing chaos were concluded. Three months passed, a period of strained civility and unspoken tension between her and Laenor. The court, ever hungry for whispers, began to murmur. Rumors started to grow louder, insinuating that the Princess was barren. Her marriage, intended to solidify the succession, seemed incapable of producing the much-needed heirs. The whispers reached her ears, sharp and accusatory.
Desperate and unwilling to let this new obstacle jeopardize her claim, Rhaenyra dispatched a discreet message to Mordred, detailing her predicament. The raven, though slow, eventually reached Winterfell.
Mordred's reply, arriving weeks later, was direct and characteristically blunt. "Rhae," the letter began, "heard your troubles. We have a solution here in Winterhold, something we've been working on for livestock and... human fertility, in certain cases. It's a medicine, prepared by our Scholars, specifically to help with vigorous love-making. It ensures... the work gets done, so to speak. I will send it with someone utterly loyal, a distant cousin who travels south often for trade. Trust him. And trust the medicine."
True to her word, a few weeks later, a sturdy Northern messenger arrived at a pre-arranged rendezvous point, his face as unyielding as the stone of Winterfell. He delivered a small, carefully wrapped vial containing a viscous, earthy-smelling liquid.
That night, with a mix of apprehension and hope, Rhaenyra presented the vial to Laenor. He looked at it, then at her, his dark eyes shadowed with a familiar sadness. "Even if my heart lies elsewhere, Rhaenyra," he said quietly, "my duty to you, and to the realm, remains." He took the vial and, with a grimace, swallowed the contents.
The medicine worked. Even though Laenor's true affections lay with his own gender, the elixir from Winterhold spurred his body to perform the necessary act. The subsequent weeks were strained, clinical encounters, yet each filled with the knowledge of duty being done.
In three weeks, a Maester, carefully chosen for his discretion, performed the examination. He emerged from Rhaenyra's chambers, a rare smile on his face. "Princess," he announced, his voice filled with relief, "you are indeed pregnant."
A wave of profound relief washed over Rhaenyra. She immediately dispatched another raven to Winterfell, a short, heartfelt message: "It worked. Thank you, Red. You have saved my claim."
Nine months later, after a difficult but ultimately successful delivery, Rhaenyra gave birth to a beautiful daughter. She had her mother's silver-gold hair and the striking violet eyes of House Targaryen. Rhaenyra named her Visenya Targaryen, after the great warrior queen. As she held her newborn daughter, a profound love bloomed in her heart, mingled with a fierce determination. Visenya, her first child, her first heir, was a testament to the strength of Northern innovation and the unbreakable bond of a friendship forged in Winterhold.